Chaotic Glint
by ReNut
Summary: "She loves him, she loves him not. She loves him, she loves him not. He ran out of petals a while back, and he wasn't convinced about the nature of her feelings these days. That is, if she was capable of feelings at all." Rated M for good ol' lemons.


**A/N** - _So this is... very smutty, and porny, and full of dirty talking and all kinds of hot and bothering stuff. Why invest on a plot when you have porn? ;) I just really like the prompt, and hopefully so will you. I kind of messed with the timing. It sets 3 weeks after the motel incident in which Dexter kills Briggs, but there's no Vogel and no redemption for Deb. _  
_Reviews are greatly appreciated, or I might assume I'm the only perverted idiot in this fandom. Enjoy!  
_

* * *

**_Chaotic Glint_**

He breaks in. He always breaks in. 'Only to check', he swears and picks a glance at his wristwatch.  
It's past 2am; she should be asleep by now.  
Three weeks into the Briggs incident, and he was in no position to tackle her, get her to spill it all on him, talk to him. She was a mere shadow of herself.  
Walking, without making any steps.  
Breathing, without taking in the air.  
Not eating, her appetite lost due to the heavy medications.  
He would frequently check on her pill count, relived when there are still plenty of them and she hasn't overdosed.  
Yet.

He spends a couple of hours each and every night, sitting on the side of her bed, watching the dark silhouette of her.  
She never moves much during her hectic slumbers. She sometimes speaks, screams or shakes violently, goosebumps covering her arms, his name dropping out of her mouth like liquid with a hint of fear. Immense fear, and then it follows by a moan, and all is forgotten. Her hand snakes under her shorts, stroking herself once, twice, and she lulls herself back to sleep with a low groan.  
He never out ruled the option that she might have known he was there, but even if she had, she seemed reluctant to say anything about it, allowing him a soothing sigh of relief. She hated him. She told him that he was the one who should have died in that shipping container, and he believed her.

"What am I without you?" he quizzed her the first night he managed to barge in. He made a rookie mistake, it was still early and she was still very much awake. He found it deeply troubling that even though his entire life was built by logic, brick by brick, he was far from able to answer his own question.  
"Hopefully fucking dead." She hissed, pushing him out the door with every bit of strength she had left. He ended up escorting himself out, knowing she was too weak to eventually do it by herself. She was getting thinner.

He moves to her kitchen counter, shaking the orange pill boxes, opening each and every one to see the content. Plenty. Good.  
He ends up in her room, propping himself to sit in front of her bed on that ugly little sofa she keeps when he realizes she's not there. The bed empty.  
Panic starts creeping up his throat when his gaze is hurriedly searching the room for any sign of blood, struggle, _a body_.  
There's nothing.  
He half jogs to the living room, risking himself by opening a small lamp by the television, his lizard brain on fuel.  
His hand comes to stroke the hem of his shirt, looking for his knife handle popping out of his back pocket. A slight noise from the kitchen has him crouching, approaching the kitchen with silence.  
Her car was still outside, she was ought to be there.

She's sitting by the fridge, her back to the counter, a bottle of cheap liquor in hand. She takes a couple of long swigs, her eyes are glazed. He smells pot. He spots an unmistakably trace of cocaine, lined up on the floor right beside her, a rolled dollar bill by her side.  
"Jesus, Deb…" he mutters to himself, standing up.  
She's not even remotely surprised to see him which confirms his previous assumption – She knows.  
Her tongue draws out, wetting her index finger. She collects whatever is left of the coke and shoves it hungrily into her mouth.  
His body tenses. Her self destruction is hurting him personally, and he's not about to let that go. There's a goddamn good reason he spends his night with her rather than with his own son.  
"That's enough, Deb." He commands, stepping a bit closer to her. She doesn't budge.  
She stares at him through the dark, long and hard. She shrugs then, taking another long swig from the emptying bottle. He takes a few more steps towards her, full of intent. If it came down to him physically dragging her out of this, so be it.

She clumsily stumbles onto her feet, leaning on the kitchen counter for support.  
She lets out a low giggle, placing the bottle by her side.  
"Come on Deb, let's get you cleaned up and tucked in." He urges, waiting for her to react.  
She blindly fondles the hem of her tank top, quickly raising it over her head, dropping the material in his direction. He's thrown off guard at her inappropriate move. She wasn't wearing a bra. His eyes are drawn down immediately, looking for her shirt. He picks it up insanely fast, moving to cover her with his eyes plastered on the ceiling, trying as hard as he can to be respectful. She yanks the material off his fingers only to toss it around again, this time far into the living room.  
"Don't you like what you see?" she takes advantage of their current position, trapping him by the fridge with a couple of steps, her breath close to his ear.  
"Jesus, Deb. You're drunk, cover yourself." He says with all seriousness, averting his gaze to look her in the eye. There's a glint sparkling back at him and if it weren't for the massive amount of cocaine she graciously just snorted, he would have been frightened.  
She doesn't mean it. She doesn't mean it. _She doesn't mean it_.

She frowns at him deeply, a slow smirk spreading on her lips, taking pleasure in seeing him all flustered and bothered by her actions.  
She craved for that effect on him, and it was more than satisfying.  
A couple of her ragged nails are slowly moving across her neck right to her breasts, making her nipples painfully erect.  
His eyes dart all over the floor, seeking refuge. He takes notice of her hand, following it, a low gasp leaving his lips. A couple of steps forward, and he backs away again, dodging the kitchen counters into the living room.  
"Don't you want to touch them?" she asks, her voice so little he barely makes out her sentence.  
There's a lump in his throat, and he finds it hard to flush it down, his mouth suddenly ridiculously dry.  
Her unsteady steps towards him is a reminder that's she's far from sane at the moment, and he should not be staring.  
He doesn't know what to make of her obvious advances as he staggers backwards.  
This wasn't supposed to happen. She's supposed to hate him, want him dead, not… not _this_.

"Deb, please, I'm-"  
and then she's changing direction, moving towards the couch. A big sigh of relief escapes his mouth, assuming she's given up and is finally going to bed. Or couch. She doesn't seem to mind.  
She slumps on her couch like a ragged doll, one foot up and the other hanging loosely from the edge, flat on her back.  
She eyes him carefully when he comes to sit by the edge of the sofa, careful not to touch her.  
Grabbing a pillow, he gently lays it out for her so she can cover herself. She simply swats his hand away, the pillow disappearing somewhere out of reach.

"I'm wet. Dripping wet." She announces with that glint back to her eye.  
He finds himself involuntary groaning again, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.  
Sudden thoughts of what he could do to her while she so mercifully handed herself to him on a silver platter are flooding his mind.  
He's immediately shaken off from those thoughts when her hands are traveling down her body again, one massaging her own breast, and one slowly gliding down her abdomen.  
Her hand tucks securely under her shorts, and he can clearly see her fingers stroking, one or two already plunged deep inside of her.  
He's staring, and he starts thinking it might be all over his head, contemplating about leaving.  
Her visible wrist is thrust deeper onto her shorts, and she quickens her pace.

"I want your fingers and mouth on me. I want you to taste how much I want you." She challenges, noting his prolonged stare. His hand is suddenly reaching towards her face, stroking the delicate silk skin of her cheek.  
"Deb, look at me. This is... wrong. Just… stop." He manages, his breath catching when she expertly slips two of his fingers into her mouth, sucking hungrily at them.  
His growing erection is starting to bother him when he lets her tongue circle his fingers, moving them deeper down her throat.  
A choked 'Fuck' escapes his lips, a sudden vivid image of her mouth down his cock is nearly enough to stop the madness, calling her on her bullshit and whatever it is she's doing to him.  
He yanks his fingers away from her, a loud popping sound following his action. She grabs his wrist. He follows her movements, using his wet and slippery fingers to draw a line down her jawbone to her neck, landing on her nipples that are quickly starting to react, hardening under his touch. He can't help but pinch them lightly.  
She smirks at him, her eyes focused all of a sudden, as if she is completely aware of her doings.

"I want you to fuck me. I want you to fuck me so hard until you put your load deep inside me. I want it to drip and I want you to lick it up, use your fingers to stretch me open and push it back inside me and then fuck me all over again." Her voice suddenly comes out so hoarse and dark.  
Her words should be vile, disgusting to his ears, but he wants to make true on every bit of it, and it's scaring the living crap out of him.  
Her hand is picking up pace again, and she starts to pant heavily, her breasts rising and falling in shallow breaths.

"You don't mean that…" he murmurs, his other hand peeling her shorts just a little so he can watch the movements of her fingers, two of them plunged deeply inside of her, the smell of her arousal reaching his nose like a breath of cool air.  
_She does mean that._  
He can clearly feel his cock leaking from the tip by now, betraying everything he has ever believed in. He grabs a hold of her wrist, stopping her from fucking herself into a searing orgasm. He pulls her hand away, taking it out of her shorts. Her fingers are wet and slick, her glistening arousal dripping down to her palm.  
He guides them both to his mouth, his tongue embracing the taste of her, lapping up hungrily, his gaze never leaving hers.  
His mind is fuzzy and full of intent.  
He plays along.

"What do you want?" he asks with her fingers momentarily out of his mouth, wasting no time in putting them back inside.  
"I want you to fill me up with your thick cock. I want to come hard while it's still inside me. I want you to bite me, bruise me, to use me like the whore that I really am."  
This gets under his skin. Sudden anger is filling up the void in his heart, the same one she left agape when she disappeared on him seven months ago. When she so royally removed herself from his life without leaving a single trace, leaving him in the dark with his own thoughts. His living conscious.  
"You're not a whore." He comments angrily, finding it hard to control his shaking voice through his clenched up jaw.  
"I feel like one. I want you to fuck me like one." She insists, her other hand taking the place of the one in his mouth, tucking deeply under her shorts again.

A moment of glum recognition hits him.  
She's punishing herself through him. She wants it so badly, and he thinks he won't be able to deny her. He's too far gone, and so is she.  
She sits up, her small breasts bouncing a little with every ragged breath she takes.  
Her hand's dexterity is impressive when she quickly disposes him of his shirt, ripping his buttons open to scatter all over the floor.  
She immediately kneels in front of him, her mouth leaving bites and bruises all over his strong chest while her hands work on his belt and pants. She pulls them down to pool around his ankles, her hand shooting up to the slight gape in his boxers, freeing his erection from its agonizing position. She's teasing the tip a little, stroking it with her tongue, collecting every single bit of the transparent liquid dripping from him uncontrollably.  
His fingers are already tangled tightly in her hair when she takes him into her mouth. He bucks his hips violently towards her, making her gag before releasing her and doing it all over again.  
He growls deeply when her hand comes to fondle his testicles, his head snapping back, teeth sunk onto his lower lip.  
She hums around him a couple of times, making him come right inside her mouth, leaving her very little room to breathe in between. She slurps it all down, using her thumb to collect a few drops from her chin, bringing it to her mouth eagerly.

He has the deepest urge to kiss her plump lips right there, and so he pulls her up to straddle him, her breasts pressed tightly to his chest. He scrapes his teeth against her neck, eliciting a low moan from her. He bites her lower lip, nibbling at it, his hands cupping her ass through her shorts, bringing her down to sit on his lap. Her radiating heat is more than enough for him to start hardening again.  
She has the most intoxicating effect on him, and it's both elevating and putting him to shame for his weakness against her.  
She loves him, she loves him not. She loves him, she loves him not. He ran out of petals a while back, and he wasn't convinced what it is that she felt these days, if that is, she felt anything at all.  
The irony of a serial killer wondering about whether his sister was capable of feelings failed to amuse him. He was told he was a psychopath. Who was he to judge?

They both know that none of this was going to be ceremonial, and so he pushes her down to the carpet, disposing himself of his boxers and her from her shorts. Her panties are soaked, and the gentle smell makes him growl with approval.

"Touch yourself." He commands, and she obliges.  
One hand on her breast and the other moving her panties aside to smear through her own wetness.  
She is breathing heavily, and his eyes boring into her are easily making her skin tingle with lust. He props himself on both elbows, his face mere inches from her dripping cunt.  
He ignores the hand on his hair, pulling him down towards her.  
Demanding.  
He is determined to make her crawl out of her skin, but on his own terms.

He kisses his way up from her thighs to her inner ones, making her squirm under his touch, her fingers circling her most sensitive nub in a steady pace.  
He allows her fingers to keep going as he thrusts a single finger into her, making her hiss a low 'Fuck me.'  
She's being literal, and he is impossibly close to exploding on himself without the help of a single touch.  
She is so beautiful from his angle, her full lips slightly parted, her chest heaving rapidly and her highlighted blonde ends of her hair sticking rather loosely on her shoulders by sweat.  
He enters another finger, and then a third. She's writhing underneath him, struggling to keep herself quiet as she moans loudly, mumbling an odd version of his name like a prayer.  
His tongue quickly replaces her fingers, flicking it over her clit with ease, eagerly tasting her. A few more moments of the blissful torment and she comes undone under his mouth and fingers, her body shaking violently.  
He removes the pesky material of her panties down her legs, appreciating the silky smooth skin as he goes, kissing her shins and the back of her knees.

He wastes no time, plunging into her as soon as the last waves of aftershock leaves her body.  
He is greeted by a low gasp and her nails digging onto his back, creating half-moons that will definitely burn tomorrow.  
"Fuc-kkk…" She releases through her teeth, her hands traveling down to grab his firm ass, bringing him even deeper into her.  
He smirks at her, sucking her earlobe into his mouth.  
"What's that?" he asks, hand coming to cup her firm breast.  
"Fuck me…" She says again and he lifts her up, quickly turning her around on all fours.  
"I don't think I got it." He teases, her hips wriggling towards him, waiting for him to make the grand entrance once again.  
"I said I want you to fuck me!" she exclaims, making herself loud and clear, and that's all she needed to do.

He rams into her wildly, bruising her hips as he goes.  
His grip on her ass is intense, his fingers turning pale white by the pressure. His other hand goes to grab a handful of her hair, pulling at it sternly with each and every thrust.  
He comes inside of her with a low grunt a couple of moments later, his eyes all foggy from the beads of sweat dripping down his forehead straight to his eyes. He uses the back of his hand to wipe it away. He wants to see her.  
He thrusts a few more times, leaning in to bite on her shoulder, marking her as his own.  
He pulls out, noticing his cum oozing and dripping down her inner thighs.

She turns around to push him towards the floor, straddling him.  
She settles herself mere inches from his face, and he's instantly reminded of what is it she really wants him to do. He grabs her ass once again, making her sit on his face.  
He laps up every single drop of their joint cum, a couple of fingers pushing the rest deeply back inside, her eyes watching carefully from above.  
His libido is surprisingly restless as he hardens for the third time, proving her magical effect on him even further.  
She reaches for his cock behind her, giving it a few reassuring strokes, making sure he's ready for another round.

She slips into him easily, riding him gloriously with her hands pressed to his chest for leverage. He pulls her down by her arms, finally catching her lips in a tender kiss, letting her know how beautiful she really is, how much she means to him.  
She moans into his mouth, seeking to taste the both of them by sucking on his tongue.  
She feels so incredibly tight and wet around him as her walls start to clench around him ever so slowly, her orgasm nearing the fence.  
He bucks his hips upwards, his teeth sinking deeply into the soft flesh of her shoulder, her taste bitter-sweet, sweat combined with her favorite perfume.  
He grabs her jutted hip bones in order to guide her down on him, trying to ignore how thin she is, how shallow and empty her eyes are when she looks at him, _except for that glint_.  
He is fucking his own sister because of that glint, and it feels so wrong yet so unbelievably right, every single bit of a principle he has regarding her safety and eternal love simply thrown out the window into the ultimate oblivion.  
She pointed a finger at him three weeks ago, letting him he was the _lost_ one. In retrospect, he couldn't agree more.

She comes, screaming anything but his name. He follows right after, the stinging feeling of realization hitting him right where it hurts.  
She collapses on top of him, her face buried in the crook of his neck.  
Is she aware of his presence? Does it even matter to her that_ he_ was the one to break her delicate body into thin pieces that night?  
Her hand comes to rest upon his neck, pressing harshly at his skin, blocking his windpipe completely.  
His eyes widen, his pupils dilated by her sudden aggressiveness.  
She sits up again, looking at him with that _glint._  
"Get the fuck out. Never come back. This never happened. Do you understand?" She says, her voice as cold as it could be. He finds it hard to response, the lack of air fogging his mind.  
Her grip tightens.  
"Do. You. Understand?" She's not asking this time.  
He nods briefly, and she lets him go, following the path to the comfort of the warm water in her shower, disappearing into the chaos of her personal hell under the heavy stream.


End file.
